America’s Slaughter of Children (in the Week of Vayera)

This is how I go to work at UNC Charlotte now.

First: I choose my clothing carefully. I no longer wear shoes with even the slightest of heels. I never wear a straight skirt. Anything I wear has to be something I can run in.

Second: I drive to campus, get out of my car and get on my backpack. I carry at least one very heavy book at my back. In my right hand, I carry my keys.

The keys are heavy, and they are ready for me to throw, and throw hard. Distracting shooters is a key “fight” response; I took that training.

I pass by buildings marking where the nearest entrances are. I’ve memorized most of them, now.

Third: I reach class and wait until the start time of class. Then my students shut and lock the door. I also carry wedges we can push underneath the door.

It’s little more than six months after the April 30 shooting at UNC Charlotte. Two of our students, Ellis Parkee and Riley Howell, were shot and killed; four students were injured and hospitalized.

This past weekend, four of my students and I went to speak at a local church about the UNCC shooting.

I described how I go to school, how I go to work, why it’s important for me to carry something I could throw in order to disorient a shooter.

“These young people” I said, gesturing to my students, “are my charge. I should be able to protect each and every one of them.”

I know I can’t.

In turn, my students described being locked in their classes, getting emails and texts about the shooter, the two shooters, the three shooters at the library, at Kennedy, somewhere on campus. Emails, reports, texts. There was no clarity, only confusion.

After hours of waiting, not knowing, campus police came into the building yelling their loudest: “Come out with your hands up!

One of my students described her reaction. Was the shooter in the building? Why else would the police be shouting like that?

Another admitted being upset by relatives who told her they were praying for her. Action, she said, was what was needed. “Faith and works,” she said.

It is little more than six months later, and each one us, in turn, spoke of terror and grief and anger. Today, it is just five days after we spoke at the church. Yesterday, as I was teaching, we learned that a student went to Saugus High School in Santa Clarita and shot five classmates and himself. Two children are dead.

To teach is the greatest privilege I have ever been offered. Every year I have watched my students grow in strength and purpose. They are extraordinary. They are committed. They are responsible, caring, adults.

“This isn’t about politics,” one said. “It is about human lives.”

Yesterday, reporters introduced the shooting at Saugus High School with these words: “Two people were killed today…”

Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. I shouted at the radio: “Children! Children were killed!”

This week’s Torah portion offers a scene of a father holding a machelet, a “devourer,” a butcher’s knife, over and above his son.

America is pointing guns at our children. Firearms are the second leading cause of death for children and teenagers. We are complicit. We are compliant.

We cannot wait upon God’s angel to call us to account, to tell us to stop.

We cannot wait.

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